Melancholy seeps in. Sometimes I try to reason it away or wrestle it to the ground. This time I decide to take it for a walk at a local forest preserve. A place that lends perspective as crushed gravel crunches rhythmically under my boots.
I note nests high in the trees and hear doves. There is a chorus of other bird songs that I can’t identify. I wish I knew their names, but not enough to learn them.
Birds and humans get louder as dusk approaches. It’s Saturday night, and the promise of darkness loosens restraint. Freedom is fleeting yet palpable.
Mosquitos swarm around my head, and I’m glad for my ball cap.
The blossoms on the trees are vivid, and the greens, varied in shade and texture, glow as the cloudy sky darkens. The crickets chirp while dogs call to their neighbors.
Somewhere in the clouds is a nearly full moon. I wonder how dark it will get. The breeze picks up, and the waves lap against the rocks surrounding the small lake.
Young people avert their eyes when they pass me. I giggle to myself. I’m not in charge here. I want to ask YOU, young couple, how serious the authorities are about closing the gates at sunset. As Greg Brown says, it isn’t really dark; it’s grownup dark. Will this defense work if I get locked in?
The honeysuckle is blooming. I’m not supposed to like it, but I do.
I hear a big fish jump.
The sun will set in twelve minutes. Do I dare make another loop? I hear the echo of others, but they may not have a car here. I weigh the potential consequences as I continue to move away from the parking lot.
The sound of the water is loud as I pass the small waterfall. The night sounds take over as the wind dies down.
I talk to the young couple that ignored me earlier. We decide to risk the wrath of whoever’s in charge. We make a pact to do one more loop and continue around the lake in opposite directions.
The melancholy fades as a bit of adrenaline kicks in.
Something about being outside at the end of the day always satisfies me. Witnessing the day’s conclusion is magical. Frogs serenade my content rebellion.
Far off, a confused rooster crows. Geese fly noisily overhead as it starts to drizzle. I smile. The sadness I dragged here has been released along the trail– compost to nourish something beautiful.
I got back to the parking lot and counted five other cars. They were rebels, too. Inspired, I rolled my windows down, opened a lavender kombucha, and took a long drink before placing the bottle between my thighs, a nod to my youth. I selected Santana and turned it up. Loud. There was no reason for the adventure to be over quite yet.